


Choke

by little_abyss



Series: Nights like Whirlwind [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bad Ideas, Biting, Choking, Complicated Relationships, Deepthroating, Dom Drop, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, M/M, Master/Pet, Past Relationship(s), Puppy Play, Relationship Advice, Rough Oral Sex, poor kink negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9485426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Everyone has been telling Cullen that his dalliance with the General of the Red Templars is a bad idea - but when, on a whim, they play a new game, more is revealed than either Cullen or Samson were anticipating.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/gifts).



> This hardly bears saying, but here I am saying it anyway. This fic portrays a master/pet relationship which suffers from a lack of negotiation between the two parties. Please, if you are considering indulging in this kind of play, **do not** take anything in this fic as a 'how to'.

“Commander?”  

 

Cassandra’s voice is every bit as icy as the wind which whips through the open door.  Cullen looks up from the parchment in front of him, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption.  She lifts her chin and asks, “If I might have a word?”

“Certainly, Cassandra,” he says, frowning slightly, though his tone is polite, “Please, come in.”

 

Her expression is pinched, and his mind whirrs at the possibilities.  What on earth could she want to talk about?   _ Griffon’s Peak _ , he groans internally,  _ their Maker-damned supply line’s been cut off again.  If we could just… _

Cassandra takes a single step into the room and closes the door with a slam behind her.  She takes a deep breath, folds her arms over her chest and tells him, “This has to stop.”

 

“I’m sorry?” he asks in confusion, his mind still on the problematic Inquisition base.  Cassandra glowers at him, raises an eyebrow and hisses, “You know very well what I’m talking about!  You two!”  When he shakes his head at her, still puzzled, she rolls her eyes.  “Everyone knows about you and… and  _ him _ .  Cullen, whatever he might be now, he was an enemy!  A traitor - you called him one yourself!  He was the General of the Red Templars, in case you’ve forgotten.  He’s… he’s  _ dangerous. _  You cannot simply keep him like… like…”  She flounders for a second, then says, “Like some kind of  _ pet _ !”

 

Cullen snorts and smiles grimly at her, waiting for her ire to spend itself.  When Cassandra only glowers at him challengingly, he cocks his head and asks, “Are you quite finished?”

She nods, her arms still folded, her expression stony.  Cullen sighs, then rises, resting his palms flat on the desk.  “Good.  Because this is the only time I’ll tell you this.”

 

He looks up, staring at her. “Samson is my charge.  The Inquisitor gave him over to me.  Leliana has had no complaints about the information that he’s supplied.  Dagna has also been able to extract invaluable information about red lyrium from him, due to his compliance.  Compliance which he gives because of me.  That should be evidence enough for you that I know what I’m doing.  Now,” Cullen takes a deep breath and raises his chin, “If you’d like to discuss your issues regarding this with the Inquisitor, I’d be happy to attend a meeting.”  He pauses, and his polite expression falls away, “But  _ do not _ , for one  _ second _ , think that it will not be seen as questioning their judgement.”  He narrows his eyes at her and says, “And I’m sure you are well aware how much Inquisitor Trevelyan enjoys that.”

 

Cassandra huffs in annoyance and opens her mouth as if she would speak.  He leaves the silence unfilled as she struggles, then asks pointedly, “Was there anything else?”

She glares at him, then shakes her head.  He smiles falsely, knowing that it will irk her even further, “Good.  Then I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself in the future.”  He looks back down at the papers which strew his desk, effectively dismissing her.  For a moment, Cassandra does nothing - then he hears her turn on her heel and open the door.  A gust of frigid air, and the door slams shut behind her.

 

Cullen exhales and shakes his head.  He looks at the incomplete work on his desk - several letters still unwritten, a draft of a new ordinance for the supply of the bases in the Hinterlands.  Then, his gaze is drawn toward the ladder to his quarters, and he smiles, straightening up and coming out from behind the desk, walking across the room.  There will be no more work tonight.

  
  


“Never thought I’d see the day,” Samson smirks, almost as soon as Cullen crests the top of the ladder, “Little Ser Cullen, telling off a Seeker.”

“Ex-Seeker,” Cullen says automatically, and pushes himself up off the last rung.  He looks up at Samson, lounging with one hand under the back of his head, propped up in bed, reading.  “You’re looking better.”

“Am I now?” Samson says, and his smirk grows as he arches an eyebrow at Cullen, “Liked what you were sellin’ down there.  All commanding and shit.   _ I know what I’m doing _ ,” he mimics Cullen’s voice almost-perfectly, and Cullen snorts laughter. Slowly, he sits on the bed next to Samson to remove his boots.  Samson sits up a little, flinging the book he’d been holding onto the other side of the bed and moving behind Cullen, leaning over him to wrap his arms around the other man’s waist.  The smile is evident in his voice as he murmurs into Cullen’s neck, “She knows  _ who _ you’re doin’, that’s for sure.”

 

“I don’t care,” Cullen says firmly, still wrestling with his boots. “Lee, get off, I need to do this.”

“Ooh, yes,  _ Commander, _ ” Samson laughs, and moves back to his position sitting against the headboard.  Cullen pulls off one boot, then the next, lining them up carefully next to the bed.  Then he turns to look at Samson, and asks him tiredly, “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothin’,” Samson says, and yawns, then chuckles.  “Just thinkin’ about something Cassandra said.”

“Maker's Breath, I know I’m going to regret this,” Cullen says, squinting at Samson, who grins again, “What?”

“She called me your pet,” Samson smirks, then licks his lip, bites it hard.  The silence grows then Samson sniffs and looks away.  Something in Cullen twists, and he narrows his eyes for a second, until Samson continues quietly, “Wouldn’t mind, if that was something you think you’d like.”

 

Visions rise behind Cullen’s eyes.  A collar and lead, cinched around the skin of Samson’s throat.  Samson on all fours before him, mouth open slightly, eyes pleading. He feels his heartbeat quicken, his mouth go dry.  “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “That sounds… Yes.”

Samson nods, still not looking at Cullen, and the silence grows awkward for a moment - as if they have reached a point of no return.  Cullen frowns at Samson, then looks down at the thin coverlet, trying to think of something to say, when suddenly, Samson speaks.

 

“So… yeah?  You want to?  ‘Cause…” he clears his throat and scowls.  Cullen huffs out a breath, smiling slightly - it is not often he gets to see this side of Samson.  Nervous.  Almost… shy.  Slowly, he reaches out and takes Samson’s hand gently - only to be rewarded with a roll of the eyes and an irritated grunt.  “Bloody Void,” Samson grumbles, pulling his hand out of Cullen’s grip, “Forget it.”

 

Cullen’s smile broadens, and he arches an eyebrow.  “Well, it’s up to you.  And it’s fine if you’re not interested.  I was just thinking about what a sweet pup you’d make.  And you’d look good in a collar and little else.  Though you’d probably be untrainable.” He sighs sadly and shrugs, “Story of my life, I suppose.”

Samson snorts, looking at Cullen.  Slowly, his expression shifts from one of incredulity to desire, and eventually, he asks, “Yeah?”  He bites his lip again, working the skin between his teeth, then grins.  When he speaks next, his voice is husky, almost furtive. “You think I’d have to be… uh… disciplined?”

 

“Oh yes,” Cullen tells him sincerely, then pauses, allowing his gaze to rake over Samson’s body.  He’s still too thin, all the definition in his muscles flattened through the long months of recovery, but he has lost the greyish pallor of his skin, and his eyes are much less red than they have been, on their way to fading back to their original grey-green.  “At least, that’s what I think you’d be like.  If we did go ahead with this.  I’ve… never done anything like this before, and… it sounds...”  The sentence trails off, and Cullen blinks once again, fascinated by the way the mere thought of keeping Samson as his pet sends adrenaline racing through his blood, makes his toes curl a little.  “But of course,” he adds hurriedly, “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

 

“No,” Samson says quickly, pushing himself up a little in the bed, “No, I want to.  I just… don’t want you to be fucking insufferable about it.  Don’t be too soft with me.  I don’t wanna be coddled.  I mean… it’s not like it’s romance or anything.”  He smiles slightly, staring at his hands in his lap, then looks up quickly to ask, “A dog, huh?”

Cullen nods.  “What do you think?”  He reaches out a hand again, slowly putting it against the side of Samson’s neck, the thumb curling around the front of his throat.  Gently, he strokes the stubbled skin, feels Samson’s throat work under his palm, studies his expression - the way his eyes flicker closed, how his nostrils flare and his mouth drops open slightly.  Samson arches his neck, raising his chin, and the naked submission in the gesture makes Cullen smile, his grip tightening around Samson’s throat and then loosening again.

 

He is rewarded with a quiet moan, and Cullen watches for a moment more, then asks softly, “Are you imagining how it will feel?  To have a collar at your throat?  Are you thinking about how beautiful you’ll be, down on all fours, your only thought to obey me?  How with a command, I can make you do anything I want you to?”  Cullen feels his own breathing quicken as he watches the heat creep up Samson’s neck, feels the pulse hammering under his fingers, still on Samson’s throat.  Slowly, he tightens his grip again, and murmurs, “You’ll be a good dog for me, won’t you, Lee?”

“This the way you treat all the dumb animals under your care,  _ Commander _ ?” Samson rasps, and Cullen feels his throat work again under his palm.  

“No,” he tells Samson slowly, and stares at him for a long moment, smiling gently.  “Not all the animals.  Just you.”

 

He sees Samson’s nostrils flare, watches as the other man’s hand goes to his lap, gripping his cock through the coverlet.  He is panting now, mouth still open, chest rising and falling in quick breaths.  Samson’s hand works on himself, slowly, though the grip is so hard Cullen notes his knuckles are pale.  “C’mon.  Fuck me, Len,” Samson whines, “C’mon, enough talkin’ about it, let's…”

“Ask me nicely,” Cullen grins, and tightens his hand a little more, holding his palm into Samson’s throat a little harder.  This at least is familiar ground - his hand around Samson’s throat.  He’s usually so stubborn, makes Cullen work for every inch, and then caves so completely, so utterly that it sometimes takes Cullen’s breath away.  Samson whines again, his upper lip rising in a sneer when Cullen tells him softly, “Stop that.”

 

Samson groans, his voice sounding strange, breathless, hand coming off himself to fist into the sheet beside him, “You won’t do me now, then I’ll just have a wank later - I’ll stick my own fingers up my arse and when I’m done I’ll lick my own come off my hand, ‘cause I know that’s how you…”

Cullen exhales as he tightens his hand once more on Samson’s throat, a strange anger coursing through him.  Samson’s eyes fly open and he wheezes out a breath, both hands coming up to clutch at Cullen’s wrist, and then he grins.  Cullen raises an eyebrow, not releasing his grip as he tells Samson in a low growl, “If you want to be my dog, you’re going to have to behave better than this.  Don’t think I wouldn’t have you whipped in the yard.  Or better yet, perhaps I would make you available.  Then, everyone could play with my dog.  I think I’d like to see how insolent you’d be once I’d had you fucked bloody and drooling by half of Skyhold.”  He pauses, surprised at himself, wondering where those words had come from.  But he sees the look in Samson’s eyes, that delicious, pitiable look, and asks, “Would you like that, dog?”

 

Samson’s face is red now, and Cullen feels his chest heave.  He relinquishes his hand slightly, but Samson clutches his wrist harder and rasps, “More.”

Cullen hesitates a moment, feeling Samson’s want, how it echoes his own.  Then he sighs and takes his hand away entirely, shaking off Samson’s grip.  “No.  If we’re going to do this, we have to do it properly.  I… I don’t want to get carried away and hurt you, Lee.  I don’t want that.”

Samson snorts and rolls his eyes, then raises his hand to his throat to rub it gingerly.  “Yeah,” he says slowly, then scoffs.  “I guess that means you wanna  _ talk _ about our  _ feelings _ .”

 

Cullen laughs and looks at his hands.  “Not really,” he confesses, “You know I don’t like doing that.  But we really should talk about… you know.  What you want out of this.  And… all that.”

Samson rolls his eyes and shrugs.  “Don’t know what’s so hard about it.  Put a collar on me - and a lead.  Or… or maybe one of those chains.  You know.  The ones that go tighter.”

“A choke chain?” Cullen asks, looking at Samson seriously.  He shakes his head, “Lee, I don’t think…”

“C’mon.  It’ll feel good,” Samson shrugs, “You said you thought I’d need discipline.”  He grins slightly, “As appealing as the thought of you standing over me while half of Skyhold fucks my arse is, I don’t…”  He shakes his head and snorts, then mutters, “I don’t wanna let you down.”

 

“Oh,  _ Lee _ ,” Cullen almost laughs, his expression softening.  Gently, he puts his hand on Samson’s cheek.  Samson looks at him then, smiling slightly.  He nuzzles his cheek into Cullen’s hand, and gives a gruff  _ woof _ .

“Good dog,” Cullen murmurs, and gives Samson a gentle scratch under the jaw.  “Good boy.  My good dog.”

 

-|||-

 

Cullen smiles at the barkeep that he’s never managed to remember the name of. “Thank you,” he tells the man sincerely enough, and takes the bottle, putting it under his arm.  Maker, but the place is crowded.  If he’d have known that, he never would have come at this hour.  He takes a deep breath and ducks his head, meaning to make his way through the crowd as quickly and as quietly as possible.  He smiles vaguely, hoping that nobody will ask anything from him, and almost makes it to the door when he hears his title,  _ Commander _ , soft, almost in his ear.

 

Cullen starts, astonished, and turns around, looking up at Bull, who raises an eyebrow and laughs a little. “Hey.  Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, grinning, “You got a second?”

“Uh…” Cullen stalls, and looks toward the door. 

Bull laughs again, but there is an edge to it, an edge that Cullen can hear even over the noise of the almost-full Herald’s Rest.  “Come on.  Come up.  It won’t take long, Commander…”

“Cullen, please,” he asks automatically, and Bull shrugs.

“Okay,” he says, then pauses, watching Cullen’s face carefully.  “You mind if I give you some thoughts?”

 

Cullen frowns. He opens his mouth, meaning to reply that he doesn’t have time, he doesn’t mean to make time for Bull’s opinion, which can only mean trouble.  But then he sighs and nods, remembering how well the man had acquitted himself at Adamant.  “Alright,” he says to Bull reluctantly, and Bull grins.

“Great,” he beams, “Come on up to my quarters, huh?  Wanna be able to hear you.”

And with that, the Qunari turns, gesturing with one hand for Cullen to follow.  With mounting trepidation, Cullen does.

 

“Look,” Bull says, as soon as the door is closed.  “I’m not here to waste your time.  But I gotta get something off my chest.”  He takes a deep breath and tells Cullen, “I know the Inquisitor gave Samson over to you for safekeeping. I know Trevelyan respects you and your decision-making.  But you gotta think how this looks to your troops.”  

 

Cullen takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying, though he doesn’t feel sorry - he feels irritated.  “I wasn’t aware this was any of your business?”

Bull shrugs.  “Yeah.  Guess you’re right.  Just thought you’d wanna be aware of it, if you weren’t already.  I mean, you’re essentially consorting now. And hey,” Bull raises both hands and grins a little, “I know what you’re gonna say - for a Qunari who’s fucking an Altus, that’s pretty rich. But… my people aren’t here. They don’t see the fond little smile around your mouth when you look up at your tower from the yard where you’re supposed to be training.  Your troops do. They see it. And I gotta say, Cullen… it’s not a good look.”

 

Cullen stares up at Bull, watching. He feels the indignation rise in his chest -  _ how dare you question me?  _ \- and then takes a deep breath. “Bull,” he says, as calmly as he can, “Thank you. Your assessment of a situation that you know little about notwithstanding, I appreciate your candor.  If I tell you it is duly noted, would you..?”

“Take my opinions and shove them?”  Bull grins - but there is something tense, almost angry in that smile.  “Sure.  You got it, Commander.”

Cullen hesitates for a second, looking at Bull, noting the return to his title.  He cannot think of anything else to say, however, so he nods curtly, and lets himself out.

 

The office is silent when he re-enters it, the moonlight shining brightly through the lozenged panes behind his desk.  The old wood of the ladder creaks as he climbs it, and he hears the shuffle of Samson moving about above him.  Without thinking, he grins, and fishes the bottle of wine out from under his arm, where he’s been clutching it against his body.  “Here,” he calls, holding it above his head, “Take this, would you?”

Samson’s head pokes over the top of the ladder and he takes hold of the bottle, smiling.  He moves back, allowing Cullen space to come up over the top of the ladder.  Once he is on his feet again, Samson raises an eyebrow and asks, “Wine, huh?”

 

Cullen shrugs.  Samson chuckles, going back to the bed, pulling the loosened cork from the bottle with his teeth and spitting it to the floor as he goes.  “Do you have to do that?” Cullen laughs, and shakes his head, beginning to remove his cloak.  

“No,” Samson replies, seating himself on the side of the bed, and smirking at Cullen, “Just like to get a rise out of you.”

“Well it certainly works,” Cullen tells him, ignoring the way that Samson’s eyebrows lift, as he waits for Cullen to respond to the double entendre. Instead of playing along, Cullen pauses to swallow heavily.  “I… bought you something else, as well.”

 

“Yeah?” Samson asks, halfway to raising the wine bottle to his mouth.  He stops mid-motion, lowering the bottle, watching as Cullen withdraws from his pocket a long length of chain with a large ring set into each end, one of which is attached to a leather lead.  Samson watches it as if transfixed, and Cullen sees his throat work.  Eventually, Samson croaks, “That for me, is it?”

Cullen nods.  “If you still want it.”

Slowly, Samson nods in return, his eyes never leaving the faint sway of the chain.  “I still want it,” he says quietly, and licks his lip.  His eyes dart between the chain and Cullen, and then he bends at the waist, putting the wine bottle on the floor.  However, instead of sitting up, back into a seated position, Samson slides forward, going to his hands and knees next to the bed.  Hesitantly, he looks up at Cullen, his mouth open slightly, seeming to scent the air.  Cullen watches, feeling his eyes go wide, feeling his heart begin to hammer in his chest.  “Lee,” he mutters helplessly, “We have to talk about it first.”

 

“Why?” Samson asks, and cocks his head, sitting on his haunches.  “You want to.  I want to.  What’s there to talk about?”

“I just…”  Cullen bites his lips together, feeling the heat steal over his neck.  His boots loud on the wooden floor, he takes two quick steps toward Samson to kneel in front of him.  Putting one hand on Samson’s cheek, he mutters, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Samson tells him, and smiles slightly, “I trust you.”

“A-alright,” Cullen says softly.  Something within him worries at this - how willingly Samson gives up control in this; how much he wants Samson to give control over to him.   _ This isn’t a good idea _ , he thinks, but Maker, he wants it - his heart is already quickening its rhythm, and so he takes a deep breath before any of his misgivings can escape as words.  “If… if things get too much,” he says, “Tell me.  You have to promise.  And… and if you can’t speak,” he improvises, throwing caution to the wind, burying how silly he feels, “Uh… knock twice.  Do it now?”

Samson raises an eyebrow, but raps his knuckles twice against the floor.  Then he mutters, “I promise.  Are we done talking?”

 

“Uh huh,” Cullen murmurs, leaning forward as he moves his hand around to the back of Samson’s head, pulling him forward.  He kisses the man softly at first, raising his other hand, the one with the chain in it, toward Samson’s neck.  When the cool metal touches his flesh, Samson gives a low moan and a shiver, and it sends such a jolt of lust through Cullen, that sound, that he pushes forward harder, tongue swiping against Samson’s teeth.  And oh, he opens his mouth so willingly, almost hungrily for Cullen, so much so that Cullen can almost feel the pulse of his thoughts -  _ more, more, more. _  It never seems as if Samson can ever have enough.  

 

Eventually, Cullen breaks the kiss, turning his face away when Samson chases his lips.  “Get up,” he says, “and take off your clothes.  Don’t speak.”

Samson nods once, then rises.  He pulls the plain cotton of the shirt he wears over his head, throwing it backward onto the bed.  But as he reaches for the lacing of the simple trousers he wears, Cullen tells him, “No.  Fold that.  Put it away properly.”

Samson looks at him, frowning.  His shoulders are set in a tense line, the muscle underneath the skin almost quivering with anticipation.  Briefly, he narrows his eyes, opens his mouth as if to argue, until Cullen raises an eyebrow and rattles the chain.  “Now, dog.”

Slowly, Samson turns around again, picks up the shirt.  He folds it carefully and then walks to the chest in the corner, placing it on top of it.  Then, he undoes his pants, shooting Cullen a look over his shoulder as if checking if he is watching.  That look, Maker, it  is wonderful - there is defiance in it, and caution, and wonder.  “Good boy,” Cullen murmurs.  He sees Samson’s chest hitch, as if he has taken in a rapid breath and bites his own lip, feeling his control slip slightly. 

 

Samson returns to him, padding on bare feet over the naked wooden boards.  His skin is gooseflesh in the chilly air, nipples pebbled - but with desire or the chill of the room, it is hard to tell.  Cullen allows his eyes to rove over Samson’s body; the pink-white of badly healed scars, taut skin over ribs, the way his cock twitches, dark and filling rapidly.  He smiles at the way in which Samson’s gaze is turned away, chin down, deliberately not looking at Cullen straight on, just like a whipped cur.  But when Cullen doesn’t move, Samson looks up, seems to grind his teeth together, and raises his chin.  Slowly, a smirk pulls his lips away from his teeth, and he cocks his head, and licks his lips, then silently sinks to his hands and knees in front of Cullen.

 

Cullen swallows, hard.  He feels his own cock, stiffening quickly in his pants and, without thinking, adjusts himself with one hand through the fabric.  Watching Samson, who silently stares back at him, he kneels next to the other man’s head.  As Samson watches, he runs the chain through his fingers, letting the length fall through one of the hoops, making a loose circlet.  “Lower your head?” he asks Samson, who does so quickly.  Cullen cannot help but notice that his breathing is already an erratic pant, a brilliant flush of desire making the flesh of his neck and chest dark pink.  He slips the length of chain over Samson’s head, around his neck, pulling it gently until the chain bites just enough to be felt all the way around Samson’s throat.   His voice is almost a whisper as he asks, “Ready?”

 

Samson nods once, then looks at Cullen.  “Stay then,” he tells Samson, and rises to cross the room to the empty basin and ewer, standing on the night table.  He picks up the basin, then recrosses the room, around the bed to pick up the wine bottle which Samson had earlier put on the floor next to the bed.  “Is my boy a thirsty boy?” he asks, smiling as he pours a small amount of wine into the bottom of the wide, shallow basin.  Samson  _ woofs _ , bounces on his hands, and crawls toward Cullen to where he stands, holding the basin.  As soon as he puts it down, Samson bends his head over it, greedy slurping noises coming from its depths.  Cullen smiles, and bends down closer.  “Good boy,” he murmurs, putting his hand on Samson’s shoulder.  For a moment, the noises of Samson licking up the wine pause, but when Cullen leaves his hand still, there on the warm flesh, they begin again.  

 

Slowly, the rasp of his calloused hand sounding awfully loud in the hush of the room, Cullen strokes a gentle line down Samson’s body, from his shoulder to his flank, settling down on his haunches next to Samson.  As Cullen moves his hand over the curve of Samson’s hip, he notices that the lapping noises have stopped.  “Are you finished, Dog?” Cullen enquires, and the noises begin again.  “Good boy,” Cullen repeats, shifting, coming closer to Samson’s body.  Over the flank and down the outside of one naked thigh, his hand travels over rough, dark hair, the smoothness of flesh, the puckered and shiny skin of old scars.  “Dog,” Cullen growls softly, then swallows, feeling desire making his throat dry, “I want to touch you.”

 

There is no response from Samson, but again, Cullen notices that the noises are gone - Samson must have finished the wine, but is keeping himself in this position, this… beautiful, submissive position, his head low to the ground, his arse up in the air, legs splayed slightly.  As soon as he realises this, Cullen feels his cock twitch again in his pants, feels need first twist in his guts then race along his nerves, every pump of his heart sending the message through his body.

 

Without rising, Samson shuffles back a little bit from the bowl.  His forearms remain flat, but he bows the middle of his back so that his chest is almost on the floor.  Cullen swallows, his mouth opening slightly, watching the flex and slide of the muscles under Samson’s skin, and then Samson turns his head slightly and whimpers.  Cullen cannot help the hitching gasp he gives, and his body moves almost of it’s own volition, starting forward onto his knees, wrapping one hand around Samson’s thigh from the back, and the other dipping underneath his stomach to caress his cock.  

 

Samson shivers, and from the corner of his eye, Cullen sees his toes curl slightly at the contact.  “Good boy,” he purrs, then kisses Samson’s hip, just above a long, triangular scar.  He wants to speak more, to tell Samson how beautiful he looks, but his mouth feels too full of words for it, so he settles for moving his hand up and down, just touching lightly with fingertips, smiling unconsciously at the way Samson curls his hands into fists.  It’s a gesture of frustration, Cullen knows, but he finds himself disinclined to do more than give these light, teasing touches.  He runs his left hand up, into the cleft of Samson’s arse, the same light touches, running in opposing directions.  Samson gives a high pitched whine, arching his arse back further, and Cullen’s grin turns into a smirk.  “Oh, don’t you like that, dog?  I’ll stop then.”

 

He takes his hands away, smiling at Samson when he whips his head to the side, mouth agape, an annoyed frown on his face.  Cullen arches an eyebrow at him, trying hard not to laugh, and shrugs, tilting his head to one side.  “Was I wrong?” he enquires politely, and Samson sits up on his haunches, palms flat on the floor.  He looks at Cullen with his eyes narrowed, then shuffles in place, opening his legs and looking down at his cock, which stands firm against his belly.  Cullen laughs and nods.  “It looks as if I was.  My good boy  _ did  _ like the strokes.”  He tucks his hand under Samson’s jaw and scratches it lightly, and Samson moves his head into the touch.  For a brief second, Cullen presses his lips together, amazed at how naturally they have fallen into this game - but then, it had always been this way between them, to a degree.  Though Samson was always the instigator, it was Cullen who inevitably ended up taking a leading role.  He smirks at Samson, and asks, “There might be more, if you’re good.  Do you think you can keep being a good dog for me?” 

 

Samson’s mouth twists strangely, then he  _ woof _ s quietly, raising up onto his knees, putting his hands onto Cullen’s shoulders.  He grins down at Cullen, then leans forward and licks a long stripe up his cheek, almost into his hair.  Cullen laughs, pushing him backward as Samson barks again, a little louder this time, bouncing on his hands.  “Alright, alright,” Cullen tells him, trying to be stern, “No more of that.”

 

But Samson rises again, tongue lolling - again he licks at Cullen’s cheek, hands shifting onto his chest, managing to catch the side of his face and his ear before Cullen pushes him back, raising his eyebrows.  Samson barks, high and delighted sounding, and grins, once more rising - but this time, Cullen catches hold of the end of the lead and pulls gently.  It is a threat, nothing more, and he hears Samson’s sharp intake of breath, feels the pause in his action.  “Dog,” Cullen tells him warningly, “What did I tell you?”

 

Samson grins, barks loudly, and before Cullen has had time to consider what may happen, he has lunged forward, pushing Cullen backward with his shoulder and the top of his head, toppling him off-balance.  Cullen lands hard on his arse, the breath wuffing out of him as Samson’s hands go to his shoulders, pushing him down, backwards onto the dusty wooden floor.  “Lee!” Cullen laughs, and Samson narrows his eyes, growling at him, then lowers his head.

The rough feel of stubble against his throat, the strength of Samson’s hands, the way he’s now straddling his hips, it makes Cullen’s eyes flutter closed for a moment.  The heat of their bodies, so close together, the arousal which comes from playing something so… out of the ordinary, the illicit, strange pleasure of having Samson so utterly naked while he remains clothed, in control - it is bewitching.  Cullen grins, a sly half-smile, and reaches up to stroke his hand along Samson’s back, feeling the sharp bridge of the other man’s nose nuzzle into his hair, snuffling into his ear then under his jaw.  Once more, Samson growls - but this time there is something changed in it, something darker, and suddenly, against the soft skin of Cullen’s throat, there are teeth.

 

It’s not a hard bite.  But it is there, Samson’s teeth digging into the flesh, just on the muscle at the side of Cullen’s throat, under his jaw where the tendon lies.  Cullen takes a deep, sudden breath in, his eyes opening.  “No,” he says, and tries to push Samson off him, “No, bad dog.” He can feel Samson’s smile against his skin at the words, feel his fingers dig claw-like into the meat of his shoulders, his hands holding Cullen down, and he scrambles for purchase against Samson, pushing upwards with his hips, trying to counteract his weight even as the teeth dig harder into his neck, even as Samson sucks as if he is purposely trying to bruise the skin in a place which Cullen cannot hide.  “Get  _ off _ ,” Cullen growls, and then his fingers find the leather of the lead and he pulls, hard.

 

Samson emits a choked wheeze, and coughs, the breath humid against Cullen’s throat.  In the instant of surprise, Cullen exploits his advantage, pulling harder on the lead, pushing up again with his hips and free hand, leveraging Samson’s weight away from him.  “Bad _ dog _ ,” he repeats, pushing Samson roughly, scrambling up after him as he tumbles over, landing with a huff on the floor.  “Bad dog,” Cullen repeats and gets to his feet as Samson squirms up into a sitting position in front of him.

 

For a moment, they stare at each other.  Cullen feels unsure of how to proceed, how to get the game back on track.  And what should he do if Samson does need… or want… discipline?  He cannot treat him as he would a dog… could he?  Samson bites his lip, cocks his head, seeming to consider, then backs up a single pace and whines plaintively.  Then he pulls his torso back further, mouth hooking into a tiny smile as the chain around his neck pulls tighter.  Cullen shakes his head, holding his arm out to loosen the chain again.  “What are you..? No,” he says to Samson, the command carrying all the authoritative weight he can muster.  He frowns and tells Samson, “Come here.”

 

Samson smirks.  Then he whines again and shuffles backwards still further, and pulls his head away with a jerk.  The chain goes taut again - his mouth opens, and he gasps, cheeks going pink.  The message is clear -  _ punish me for it, then.   _ “Dog,” Cullen says, and tugs, once, hard on the end of the leash.  Samson gags, then coughs as the chain around his throat loosens once more when Cullen takes a step forward.  For a second, he looks balefully at Cullen, then pads toward him, his head lowered, looking up at him through his lashes.  

It is only a matter of a pace, the distance between them, but Cullen feels suddenly like this game is widening a gulf between them.  His stomach feels tight, and he cannot decide if it is exultation he feels at having Samson naked and chained at his feet or terror at the prospect of the power he holds in such a position.   _ I trust you _ , he hears Samson repeat again in his mind, and he swallows, lifting his chin defiantly, determined to see this through to its inevitable conclusion.  “You do not get to chose the manner of your punishment, dog,” he says gruffly, barely hearing the growl in his own voice, “Sit.”

 

He does.  Samson has come close enough to him that if Cullen thinks about it, he can almost feel his breath on his cock, even through his trousers.  It seems to grow with every passing moment, and as he considers Samson, looking down upon him, it occurs to him that he can probably see the outline of it through his trousers; and from this angle, it would be a simple enough thing for Cullen to simply undo the laces on his pants and ask Samson to suck him off.   _ Not ask, _ his mind whispers,  _ tell him.  Or better yet… _ Cullen licks his lip, bites it hard, then takes a deep breath. 

“Dog,” he says, and Samson looks up at him.  There is a flicker which crosses his face at that harsh command in Cullen’s voice, but this is the game and now he thinks he knows what Samson wants, Cullen is going to try to give it to him.  So he narrows his eyes and tells Samson softly, “Lick my boots.”

Samson’s expression changes, almost as if he is stunned.  Cullen stares back, his stomach clenching with nerves.  Will he do it?  What will Cullen do if he doesn’t?  “Dog,” Cullen says, half a question, half a command, and then Samson gives him a strange half smile and bends forward, extends his tongue and gives the toe of Cullen’s boot a short lick.

 

The sight of Samson’s naked back, the way his arse is in the air as he hovers with his mouth over Cullen’s boots, the sound of his tongue on the leather and the brief tinkle of the chain links, all of it, all combined, it fills Cullen’s head with a roar, and something in him snaps.  He tugs hard on the lead, and Samson whines, then bends to his task again.  “You wanted punishment, didn’t you, dog?”  Cullen asks, his voice low, want pooling deep between his hips, coursing like bright white fire through his veins, “You wanted me to hurt you, to shame you.  You wanted to see if I would break.   _ Look at me _ ,” he hisses, the sound of it vicious, and Samson’s head snaps up quickly.  With the hand not holding the lead, Cullen reaches down, stroking his fingers through Samson’s dark hair, then gripping it tightly in his fist.  “You wanted this,” he says, watching Samson wince as he wrenches his head back further, Samson’s hands leaving the ground and going to Cullen’s wrist, and Maker that  _ roar _ , that roar inside of him, it is so  _ loud _ , too loud, he feels almost outside himself watching as he pulls Samson up by his hair, hardly hearing the man’s short half-scream, hardly feeling the way that Samson’s short nails dig into his skin.  He pulls the lead tight, even as he pushes Samson down onto the bed, and Samson chokes, his eyes bulging.   _ No, no, stop _ , something in Cullen groans,  _ Stop this before it’s too late _ .  “Open your mouth, dog,” he hears himself say, and pulls the lead hard again.  Samson gags, eyes watering, tears making tracks down his cheeks, his fingers fluttering at the chain, how it digs into the flesh of his throat, the links pulling the skin.  He whines briefly, mouth moving, eyes round with panic, and Cullen can feel the sneer on his lips as he tells Samson, “Open your  _ mouth _ , I said.”

 

Lips trembling, Samson does.  With one hand, Cullen unlaces his breeches, pushing the fabric aside enough to free his cock, swollen and heavy.  He strokes it roughly, watching Samson’s face, the tears shining in the low light from the few candles and the light of the moon, as he pumps his cock in his fist.  As Samson waits, mouth open, Cullen wraps the leather handle of the lead around his fist, causing the chain to clink again, the noise pretty and bright in the freezing air.  Cullen pants, his breathing ragged, and Samson licks his lips and swallows, then whines again.  His eyes are huge, barely blinking, and for an instant, an instant in which he feels the leather in his hand, sees the tears drying in the corners of Samson’s eyes, he almost pulls back.  But the sensation of his hand on his cock, it quickens, and that roar inside him becomes louder and louder and louder still until he grunts, pushes his hips forward, pulling his hand away as he shoves his cock into Samson’s mouth.  It is not gentle, Samson looks panicked and he gags once, twice, the delicious sluice of saliva from it around Cullen’s cock, hot and wet and  _ oh _ , so perfect.  “Suck,” he commands, and pulls the lead quickly, once.

 

Samson whimpers around his cock, and it feels like some internal light goes out of him.  His grip in Samson’s hair tightens as the man begins to suck on his cock, pushing back a little against his hand as he fights to breathe properly.  Cullen lets him do it, keeping the pressure on the lead so that the tension is tight, but not so tight as to cut off Samson’s air supply.  Not yet.  Maker  _ fuck _ , it feels good, so good, this control - he pushes in deeper, holding Samson’s hair tighter and fucking into his throat so deeply that Samson gags again.  Now he cannot really suck, given the angle, his tongue is immobilised because of the depth of Cullen’s cock in his mouth; his hands are fisted into the sheets and when Cullen looks down, he sees that his eyes are closed, the tears shimmering on the lashes.  The sight of that would once have made Cullen pause, might even have stopped him, but tonight - no, tonight is different.  “Mine,” Cullen mutters, “You’re… you’re mine.”  He drags his fingers out of Samson’s hair, clutching at his shoulders and neck, his nails digging harder into the flesh.   _ I can do anything I want,  _ he thinks, and the desire, it is no longer a roar - with those words, it becomes a scream.

 

He slams harder into Samson’s throat, and Samson gags a fourth time and gives a muffled cry.  His eyes open for a second, he glances up at Cullen then closes his eyes again.  The thrusts are deep, so deep that Cullen can feel the back of Samson’s throat and  _ Maker,  _ it is good, it feels… it feels so good.  Samson tries to pull back, but Cullen grabs his head harder, bringing it forward and continues thrusting.  And that _ whine _ that Samson gives, it is too, too perfect, he cannot stop looking at the man, he pulls harder on the lead without meaning to.  Samson chokes again and raises his hand to slap Cullen hard, twice, on the thigh, but oh, he is almost… almost there and it’s… it’s so

He comes, hard, his cock buried deep in Samson’s throat.  He does not know what he says in those moments, only that he comes back to himself at the sound of Samson gagging and whooping in great lungfuls of air, in between long, moaning sounds which seem… Maker, they seem almost like… Cullen blinks, wondering why his hands hurt.  He releases Samson’s hair and the lead in his hand and immediately Samson crawls backwards on the bed, clutching at his throat and his head and retching, his eyes streaming with tears.  “Lee,” Cullen rasps, guilt suddenly covering him, swarming inside him, turning him cold.  Samson does not reply, only blinks at him, looking overwrought and tired.  For a moment, all is silent.  Then Samson looks down at his lap, covers his face with his hands, and begins to cry.

 

Cullen stands stock still, staring at Samson.  Slowly, he raises his hands - he sees, on the left, strands of hair still clinging to his sweaty palm, darkened half-moons of his nails.  On the right is a pattern which wraps right around from the palm, over the back of his hand - where the chain links have dug into his flesh.  Cautiously, he turns to sit on the edge of the bed, listening to Samson’s stifled sobs become sniffles.  Maker, why can’t he say anything?   _ Because you’re awful.  You liked that - you loved it, having him so powerless in your hands, the way he looked right before… and you were…  _ He shudders at the memory, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.  There is a terrible kind of despair slowly wrapping itself lovingly around his chest and pulling tight.   _ You liked it, _ that part of his mind insists,  _ You liked it, you monster.  You claim to be changed, when all that’s really changed is the setting. _  Cullen shivers again, swallowing to try and alleviate the vomitous feeling which rises now in his chest at the thought, and the sound of Samson’s crying still ringing in his ears, his hand still aching with pulling the chain so tight.   _ You could have killed him _ , he thinks, appalled all over again at himself, and involuntarily looks over his shoulder, to where Samson lies curled on the other side of the bed, facing away from Cullen.  There are red welts, angry and raised, over the flesh of his shoulders, deep divots and scratches where Cullen had grabbed him in his extremity.  He wants to put a hand out, to say something, anything - but he does not know if it will be accepted, what in the Void he will say.  So instead he looks up, through the collapsed ceiling at the stars, and silently wills morning closer.

 

-|||-

 

“Ah, Commander!  So glad you could join me,” Dorian leans back in his chair, looking at his nails in the dappled, pale late-afternoon sunlight of the arbour.  “I had almost thought you had quite forgotten our appointment.  What with your…  _ work _ .”

Cullen raises his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes at the other man.  He is exhausted.  Though he had slept last night, it was fitful and shallow - at dawn, he had awoken to the soft sound of the door closing below and turned to see Samson’s place in the bed beside him empty and cold.  They had not spoken; there had been no chance for it.  All day he had been trying to appear as if nothing was amiss, while also to surreptitiously make enquiries about Samson.  Who had seen him?  Where did he go?  Cullen doesn’t know.  He sighs, looking up as Dorian smiles at him - on the surface, charming, and yet… Cullen clenches his jaw, then asks, all the while at pains to keep his voice light, “Yes.  It has been busy.  Busier than usual.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.  I do hope that the strange noises that we heard last night didn’t keep you up.  I have to say, you do look rather exhausted.”  Dorian leans forward slightly, grey eyes curious, piercing.  “Shall we play?”

 

Cullen frowns, then nods.  Dorian smiles again, gesturing to Cullen to sit, and soon they lapse into their usual quiet as the chess game commences.  However, as Dorian takes his time, pondering his next move with his jewel-bedecked fingers hovering over his tower, Cullen clears his throat.  “What noises?” he asks quietly.

Dorian smiles, a quicksilver grin.  “You haven’t heard?” he enquires, “It’s rather a mystery.  Last night, in the early evening, there was what sounded like a dog barking - yet everyone is utterly at a loss over what it could be.  It seemed to be coming from the east - and as you know,  _ our _ mabari are all in the substructures to the west.  You simply cannot hear them from up here.  And there certainly aren’t any lapdogs at Skyhold.  Or… are there?”  Dorian arches an eyebrow, and that awful curiosity is back in his gaze.  Cullen can feel himself want to squirm, feel the heat creeping up his neck.  Furiously, he wills himself to calmness.  “In any case, the kennel master certainly is puzzled,” Dorian’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches Cullen, “He says it sounded like a dog in pain.  He said, and I quote, that it sounded like trouble.”

 

Cullen feels as if the blood has all drained from his face.  His mouth opens, and then he snaps it shut again and smiles.  “Dorian, you must excuse me.  I’ve just remembered…”

“What?  That you’ve left your dog tied up?”  Dorian mutters viciously and sits back in his chair.  “You must see that this is a bad idea.  The whole of Skyhold knows that you’re fucking Samson, and have been for quite some time.  But this…”  Dorian takes a deep breath and sighs it out again.  “In reality, I honestly don’t care what games you play.  You work extremely hard, and Maker knows you should try to take your pleasure how you find it.  But… I spoke to Dagna this morning.  You know she keeps daily physical logs of Samson’s condition.  Very fastidious about it.  She told me that there were wounds on him - bruising which looks almost as if he’d been choked.  With rather a degree of intent behind it, from what she says.”  He pauses, looking at Cullen for what feels like a long time.  “Sweet Maker, man, it has to stop.  I’m not trying to...”

 

“Dorian.  Please.”  His voice is far sharper than he means it to be, but the shame welling in his chest is too much.  All he wants, quite suddenly, is to find Samson, to apologise to him as many times as he needs to to make this right between them.  The after-effects of last night’s terrible game might physically fade from Samson’s body, but Cullen is certain that neither of them will ever forget them.  He bites his lip, looking imploringly at Dorian, who shakes his head quickly, and looks away.

“I never thought I would be having this conversation with you, of all people,” Dorian says softly, then sighs and smiles sadly.  “Cullen… you look as if you know this already.  But - please.  This is getting dangerous - for both of you.”  Another pause, then Dorian turns back to gaze at Cullen, his look so concerned and piercing that for a moment, Cullen cannot stand it.  He swallows hard, and Dorian sighs and looks away once more.  

 

Slowly, Cullen nods.  Quietly, cautiously, he rises, looking at Dorian, who turns his head to stare back at him, brows furrowed.  Cullen takes a breath, meaning to speak - but there seems to be nothing left to say.  So instead he licks his lips, nods once more, and turns on his heel, walking quickly back toward his quarters.

 

The door creaks open, ushering him into complete silence.  No messengers waiting for him, no crackling of the fire, not a breath of noise.  “Samson?” Cullen calls cautiously, taking a step into the room.  “Lee?  Are you here?”  

 

Nothing.  Quietly, Cullen walks into the office and closes the door behind him.  He glances guiltily at the desk, where piles of paper sit neatly, waiting for him to look at them.  Sighing softly, chewing his lip, he makes his way over to the ladder and begins to climb it.  As he climbs, he thinks he hears a soft breath, and his heart leaps in his chest - even as his stomach drops.  And there, on the edge of the bed, he sits.

 

“Lee,” Cullen says, not even waiting until he has pulled himself over the edge of the ladder, “Lee, please.  Can I… I need to talk to you.”

Samson is silent, staring into his hands as Cullen rounds the bed and goes to his knees next to him, peering up into his face.  He waits, not touching Samson, willing him to look up, look at him, make any move at all.  They sit in silence, caught in this awful moment which drags on and on, until finally, Samson sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and Cullen opens his mouth, wanting to snatch the words, the sentiment of them away, wanting to insist that it is  _ he _ who should be apologising.  But Samson looks up, and Cullen closes his mouth again.  “I’m sorry,” Samson repeats, “I can’t do this any more.  I… we’re not the same people.  I guess… last night, I was tryin’ to give you something I thought you wanted, I got caught up in it.  And I guess that I wanted it to be the way it used to be, back in Kirkwall.”  He smiles slightly, soft and bitter with reminiscence.  “You were rough with me back then, remember?  But it was good - it never… never felt like you meant it, y’know.  Not like… last night.”

 

Samson takes a deep breath and rises.  “That dwarf’s found another room for me.  I’m gonna talk to the Inquisitor tomorrow.”  He smiles at Cullen again, that same rueful twist of his lips, “That’s not a threat - you been good to me, Cullen.  And I still…”  Samson’s nostrils flare - he looks away and sniffs.  “But I can’t go on like this.  There’s… there’s too much history here.  And we should maybe both think about what that means before we get any deeper into this.”

 

Cullen stares up at him, aghast.  “Lee, I…” he begins, then rises also, clasping his hands in front of him, looking at the floor.  “Please.  I didn’t…”

“I know,” Samson tells him, “And it wasn’t anything either of us did or didn’t do.  But we’ve both changed, and we need to… y’know, to look at that, before…”  He takes a deep breath and reaches out, hooking a finger under Cullen’s chin and pushing it up so that their eyes meet.  “Hey.  It wasn’t last night.  That was… not so great,” he smirks, and Cullen grinds his teeth together, seeing it for the defence mechanism it is, “I just… I…” Samson stops, stumbling into silence, and then shrugs.  “I gotta go,” he mutters, and Cullen nods.  

 

His tread is heavy over the wood.  Cullen stands, wracked with indecision, before he turns and says, “Lee.” 

Samson stops, but does not turn around.  “For what it’s worth,” Cullen murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“I know that,” Samson tells him, and looks over his shoulder.  Cullen can see the sad smile in the corner of his mouth, and the tense set of the muscles in his back.  “For all that it’s worth, I am too.  And… Len, I ain’t sayin’  _ never _ .  I’m just sayin’  _ not now _ .”  He turns then, looking directly at Cullen, and tells him, “We got work to do first.  I’ll still be around, alright?  You come talk to me anytime you want.”  The smile changes, becomes that insolent smirk again, and Cullen cannot help it, he grins back, “Especially if you wanna shut that Seeker up.”

“Ex-Seeker,” Cullen reminds him, then looks down at the floor.  “Thanks, Lee.”

Samson nods and without another word, turns again and begins to descend the ladder.  More footfalls across wood, the sound of the door opening - a gust of wind, and then he is gone.

 


End file.
